


Bow unto blame

by bluenna



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Season 2, i just.... idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:04:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4168764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluenna/pseuds/bluenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come home.”</p>
<p>Murphy swallows. “No,” he whispers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bow unto blame

**Author's Note:**

> I just took a shot of sour apple liquor and said: “Okay. Murphamy. Let’s do this.”

Murphy has been in the bunker for months. He has been eating proper food, drunk more scotch than he could ever have imagined and listened to all the records through so many times he knows lyrics to all of them. There’s no one to boss him around or piss him off or to invade his personal fucking space, and he hasn’t seen Jaha since the man left him, like the prick he is. He’s living the fucking life here, with his movies and records and gun that he practices to shoot with until there’s no way he’ll ever miss.

He’s the happiest he’ll ever be, and of course that is the moment someone rattles the door to his bunker, shattering whatever image of life Murphy has been building. He grabs his gun and points it towards the doorway, ready to shoot whoever comes in, while he finishes the can of beans he’s having for lunch. The door starts to open and he sets down the spoon, pressing his finger on the trigger, firmly but not pulling it just yet.

His stance falters. His hand starts to shake, and his lips part, a cold like ice setting on his bones, as he watches Bellamy Blake step in, his clothes wet and his face bruised. He’s almost exactly like Murphy remembers, except his eyes are harder and the set of his mouth tighter, like he has aged years during the months Murphy’s been gone.

“Bellamy?” he asks. His voice breaks, but he blames it on the shock, blames it on the isolation, blames it on anything that will make him forget it ever happened. He watches as Bellamy turns, fast and his face losing all the hardness, surprise taking over.

For the first time in months Murphy feels like he craves for a physical touch, and he steps forward without thinking, the hand holding the gun dropping to his side. He wants to see if Bellamy is real and not a hallucination, wants to reach out and curl his fingers around the fabric of his wet shirt. He wants to know. He needs to know.

“Bellamy?” 

It’s not him this time. His head snaps towards the doorway where Clarke is standing, frozen as she stares at him, and just like that all the anger that has crawled its way deep into a corner of his mind flames and fills him inside out. There was never a chance that Bellamy would let go of his princess, was there? After all this time Murphy should know they’re inseparable. 

“Jaha’s not here,” he says shortly. He turns on his heel and stalks into the bedroom, leaving the royals to deal with their current crisis by themselves.

\--

They don’t leave. No, that’s not true. They do leave, which Murphy feels simultaneously annoyed and good about, but then they come back and suddenly Murphy feels relief. There’s a knock on the door this time before Bellamy lets himself in, and Murphy looks at him from his seat on the couch. He’s in the middle of watching Matrix and turns back towards the television, acting like he doesn’t deem Bellamy important enough to pause the movie.

“What’s this?” Bellamy asks, coming to stand behind the couch, his hands gripping the back of the piece of furniture, too close for Murphy to feel comfortable.

“Matrix,” Murphy says because he can’t resist. 

“Huh,” Bellamy says and sits down. During the next ten minutes Murphy finds he cannot concentrate at all, not when Bellamy’s just a few feet away from him, looking like he fucking belongs here, in Murphy’s bunker, in his life.

“Where’s the princess?” he asks once he loses all interest towards the movie.

“Around.”

Murphy glances at Bellamy, but the man’s expression tells him absolutely nothing of what’s going on in his head. It’s amazing how his whole persona is already starting to annoy Murphy, from his expressions to his position to the way he keeps tapping his finger against the arm of the couch. Murphy closes his eyes briefly before he stands up and goes to get himself a glass of scotch.

He wants Bellamy out as soon as possible.

\--

Bellamy doesn’t leave. The night comes and he’s still sitting on the couch, another movie playing on the television, Murphy’s glass with Murphy’s scotch in his hand and a smile tugging his lips. He has barely said a word and Murphy’s starting to feel like he’s in fact a hallucination instead of the real Bellamy Blake. He’s insufferable and Murphy’s close to being done, so he gets up and switches the movie off. Instead, he shows Bellamy something else.

Murphy has watched the video from over a century and a half ago so many times he’s lost count. He doesn’t flinch anymore, and takes pride in it as Bellamy almost drops his glass.

“Careful with that,” Murphy tells him. “Wouldn’t want any stains on the carpet.”  
Bellamy turns his wide eyes towards him. “This is where it happened?” he asks.

“I did the math.”

Bellamy downs the rest of his scotch in one go, before looking up at Murphy. “Come home,” he says – pleads – and Murphy’s face drops.

“This is my home,” he responds stiffly. He once again flees to the safety of the bedroom, and pulls the door closed, blocking Bellamy’s protests.

\--

A week goes by, Bellamy’s still there and Murphy’s losing his mind. 

“If you keep eating that way I’ll have no food left,” he mutters when Bellamy opens the third can of beans.

He watches as the man eats quietly for a moment, spooning the disgusting contents into his mouth like it’s ice cream or something equally good, instead of a hundred years old, wet, fake meat.

“I guess you’ll just have to come home with me,” Bellamy says once he’s done, smiling at Murphy tiredly. This time Murphy settles on sighing; he has no energy to storm out of the room for ten times a day.

“No. This is my home.”

\--

It’s a miracle that their first fight isn’t until eleven days in. It starts with Bellamy setting the volume lower on the music player, and Murphy changing it higher two seconds later. It ends with their mouths bloody and Murphy pinned down on the ground by Bellamy, and Bellamy demanding: “Come home, Murphy.”

It ends with Murphy glaring up at him and spitting out: “No.”

\--

Bellamy tells him about Mount Weather. He tells about the guilt, about Clarke leaving and about her coming back and how they had been determined to find Jaha.

“Sorry you only found me,” Murphy says, accidentally sounding more apologetic than angry. He keeps his mouth shut after that and listens to Bellamy talk until he starts slurring and eventually falls asleep with his head against Murphy’s shoulder.

Murphy has no idea what he should do, not when he feels like getting up and leaving Bellamy to fall onto the floor, but also wants to cover him with the blanket that’s in a bundle at the other side of the couch. He ends up sitting there for an hour before going to sleep.

\--

Bellamy goes out one morning and comes back wet and two big fish on his arms. He grins at Murphy like he has just defeated the world, and starts gutting them for dinner.

“Come home?” he asks once they’ve eaten, too much hope in his eyes, too much something that keeps Murphy from responding the way he usually would. He gets up and goes to wash the dishes.

“No,” he mutters, as he rinses the plates for the fourth time. “No, no, no.”

\--

Once Bellamy asks him why. Why he doesn’t want to come back. When Murphy asks him for one reason to do so, he opens his mouth to answer before closing it with an audible click. And that is that.

\--

It’s been two months. It’s a miracle that Clarke hasn’t returned, just to see if Murphy has killed Bellamy and that’s the reason he hasn’t come back yet. Murphy doesn’t know what the actual reason is; there’s no way Bellamy’s there just to persuade Murphy to come home, but it’s pretty much the only thing he ever does. He hunts what he can, cooks, watches movies with Murphy, gets drunk with him on the regular, he just is and sometimes it feels like he never wasn’t.

If there’s a secret mission he’s on, he never says, or does anything that would indicate so. It’s quite surely driving Murphy insane, because after months of being alone and having his own space, suddenly there’s Bellamy invading every fucking part of his life. Sometimes he wants to fuck him up, to beat him and throw him out of the door, just so he could get the quietness back, just to get his fucking peace. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t. Maybe he’s missed company. He just never thought he would, especially when it comes to this man who tried to hang him and whom he tried to hang in return. They’re a messed up dynamic in too many ways.

It’s been four days since they even yelled at each other when Bellamy suddenly abandons the book he’s been reading and reaches for Murphy, pulling him close by his shoulders. Murphy has no time to figure out what’s happening before it’s apparent, when Bellamy’s lips crash on his, his fingers closing around the hair at the nape of his neck. Murphy’s first instinct is to punch him, but he doesn’t get further than raising his hand before Bellamy grabs his wrist and pulls back, only far enough that the words he whispers between them are audible.

“Come home.”

Murphy swallows. “No,” he whispers back.

\--

Murphy’s lived in the bunker for exactly six months. Last two of those he’s had Bellamy with him, and he knows that soon Bellamy’s going to leave. He’s started to look restless, pacing around and spending more time outside, and Murphy’s been reading more, trying to ignore the tiny annoying voice in his mind that he should say yes before Bellamy stops asking and just leaves him. It doesn’t work, because the books in the bunker are shit.

“There’s no one there for me,” he says finally, laying the book down on his laps and resting his head against the back of the couch.

Bellamy’s drying his hair, a clean-ish shirt in his other hand, and a frown setting on his face. “What?”

Murphy glances over his shoulder at him. “At the camp. Everyone hates me, I hate everyone, I have no reason to go.”

Bellamy drapes the towel over the back of a kitchen chair and pulls on his shirt. “You have me.”

Murphy snorts. “That’s not enough. You’re not mine.” It’s as close to asking for Bellamy to take him with him as it’ll ever be. This is it, and if Bellamy has been just trying different tactics to get him away from here, then he can go alone. Murphy’s fine alone, he’d be fine with Bellamy, but there’s no in between.

Bellamy comes to stand in front of him. He crouches down and grips Murphy’s jaw with his fingers. “Really?” he asks, his voice low. “‘Cause you’re mine.”

Murphy narrows his eyes at him. “It’s not the same,” he says, because it isn’t. 

“Murphy,” Bellamy says. He runs his thumb over Murphy’s mouth, before lifting his chin. “I’ve been asking you to come home with me for two months. I’m yours.”

Bellamy stares at Murphy, and Murphy stares back, his breathing shallow and his eyes tracking for any trace of lie on Bellamy’s face. He finds none.

“Ask me,” he demands.

Bellamy smiles. “Will you come home?”

This time it’s easier. He knows ninety-nine percent of camp Jaha is always going to hate him, and he’s always going to hate him, but really, it’s has never been more than the one percent he has needed. And this time he has it.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> it's 7am and i can't read anymore so if there were any mistakes they clearly weren't my fault


End file.
